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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509360">Moments of Ressler</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale'>RatTale</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Blacklist (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action, Angry!Ressler, Angst, Blacklister, Clones, Dark, Episodic (kinda), Friendship, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, No would watch this show if I was one of the writers, Science Fiction, just some fun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:33:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509360</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are way too few Ressler-focused episodes in this series. To fix that I'm going to be writing a few short "quick-fics" to scratch that itch I have to just see more of our favorite agent. The stories will be short, completely Ressler-focused and will look at a few strange scenarios he might find himself in.</p><p>I'll try and keep to the show's spirit, but over-all this is just a bit of fun.</p><p>1) Cloned<br/>2) Tommy Markin</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Raymond Reddington &amp; Donald Ressler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Cloned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“You’ve been cloned, Ressler.”</p><p>Donald’s head ache spikes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re arresting him on suspicion of murder. Donald can scarcely believe it. They have DNA, fingerprints, eyewitnesses, and even footage of him in that casino, gunning down a man behind the bar.</p><p>He doesn’t know the man. He doesn’t even know the casino.</p><p>And yet he’s being led away in cuffs, his teammates eyes burning into his back – shocked, surprised, possibly already judging him. Donald resists the urge to punch something.</p><p>****</p><p>“I wasn’t there.” The statement has become a mantra, a poor shield against a volley of arrows. He’s been struck hard, technically down for the count, and still he stands firm. But they won’t believe him.</p><p>“Eyewitnesses, a camera, hell even your DNA on a glass. We have you Ressler.” Detective Barns, a rough-type, old-school cop is leaning in so close Donald can smell the cheap cigarettes on his breath.</p><p>“I was in my apartment.” He keeps his eyes forward, “I have a witness.”</p><p>He grins. “So you say, and still ya can’t tell us who this so-called ‘witness’ was. Convenient, Donnie.”</p><p>Don’t call me that, he thinks, but bites his tongue. It won’t do, they’re out for blood, they have him, but Donald knows they don’t. He hadn’t been at that bar. He has a witness. Just a pity the witness was Reddington.</p><p>****</p><p>It’s evening when the door to his cell slides open and Donald looks up, his heart sinking at the thought of another round of interrogation.</p><p>“Turns out your witness came forward.” The detective stands back, his expression furious, “Your boss is here to get you. You’re being released.” When Donald walks past him, he’s grabbed by the arm. “Provisionally.” He resists the urge to the punch the detective's lights out.</p><p>Instead he walks up the stairs without a word. He finds Cooper waiting for him. His boss smiles and the tension that’s been biting into his neck and shoulders eases. He doesn’t speak until they are in the car and heading to the Post Office. “I didn’t shoot that man.” He feels he has to at least say it to his boss.</p><p>“I know.” Replies Cooper, sending another flood of relief through his system “Reddington immediately assured us you were with him, and unless you could be in two places at once, it wouldn’t be possible.”</p><p>“So, what the hell is going on?”</p><p>“You’ve been framed.” He says, his eyes are on the road. The frown deepening with every word. “I’ve had Aram track the man’s cell-signal for the last day.”</p><p>“Framed?” Donald asks, a little thrown by this kernel of information, “Who would wanna frame me?”</p><p>“Apparently.” Cooper shoots him a quick glance, “You’ve been cloned, Ressler.”</p><p>Donald’s head ache spikes.</p><p>****</p><p>He’s seen the footage before now. In the police station they showed it to him over and over and over, hoping to break him. It had honestly just confused him. But when he looks at it now, it makes him sick. Somewhere out there, there is a man who looks exactly like him, and who is capable of murdering people.</p><p>“Why would anyone even want to clone me?”</p><p>The question comes after a lengthy explanation from Red about the Blacklister. The man’s name is Phillip Fries, a biologist who was at the frontier of cloning for a very long time, but has since disappeared. Red turns to him, smile sharp, “Because Donald, taking your identity is a marvelous way of spying on the FBI without actually spying.”</p><p>Donald shakes his head, “That makes no sense, why make me the number one suspect in a murder investigation? If I’m behind bars, then I won’t have a position to infiltrate.”</p><p>Red’s expression turns stoic, “I believe there is far more going on here than we realise.”</p><p>Donald doesn’t reply. A sense of dread already pooling in his stomach.</p><p>****</p><p>When he finally meets his Doppelganger, it’s as surreal as he thought it would be. It’s not quite looking into a mirror. The smile is wrong, the posture too loose, too folded. But it’s the smile, crooked sharp and cruel that makes Donald realise instantly. They are not the same. It’s not a mirror, more like an evil twin.</p><p>“FBI, hands behind your back, you’re under arrest.” His gun is trained on the clone, keeping him in the pool of light hanging above them.</p><p>The double smiles, reminding Donald of a wound gaping open. “You’re as uptight as I thought you’d be.” He touches his chest, drawing Donald’s attention to their attire. They are wearing the exact same suit. “You need to loosen up, Donnie.”</p><p>“Don’t call me that.” Donald advances, his gun still drawn, “I won’t say it again, get on the ground-“</p><p>The man moves to the side, missing the bullet by inches before slamming into Donald full force. Then they are struggling, fighting through mud and muck and whatever else might be in the filth around them. Donald struggles for the gun, but the bastard is good, as good as he is, and they’re as evenly matched as could be. Neither manage to reach it.</p><p>“Ressler!” They both stop, turning to Liz and Red who are standing a few feet away.</p><p>“Liz, it’s me! Don’t shoot.”</p><p>Donald gapes at him, “No it damn well isn’t. Liz, don’t listen to him.”</p><p>Her gun swerves between the two of them. Her uncertainty mounting as each yell out reasons why they are real. Donald belatedly realizes, the double has all of his memories. It knows everything – from the mundane to the secrets. How is that even possible? “Goddamnit Liz!” he finally yells, “Don’t fucking listen to him, he is trying to-“</p><p>Red fires.</p><p>The searing pain shoots through his shoulder and Donald hits the ground biting back a scream. “Fuck!” he says instead and tries to push himself up. Red’s gun hovers above him, and Donald collapses back down. His heart racing, mind barely wrapping around what the hell is happening.</p><p>“No,” he says, “Red, no. <i>I’m</i> Ressler, please. You have to –“</p><p>Another bullet this time in the other shoulders. Donald screams this time.</p><p>“Stop!” it’s Liz, oh thank God, she’s realized, “Please stop, I can’t watch this.”</p><p>“Then take Agent Ressler and leave,” Red says, “I’ll finish this.”</p><p>No! He tries to scream, but words are tight and unforgiving in his throat. Donald gasps around the pain, watching in horror as the doppelganger is led away. As Liz helps him in the car, as they drive off, as the bastard turns to him and <i>smiles</i>.</p><p>The car disappears and Donald can feel the fear rush over him. He is shaking, terrified at the prospect of dying – of knowing that <i>thing</i> will take over his life. No one will mourn him – dear God no will even know. Gritting his teeth, he looks up at Red, “It’s me.” He doesn’t know what else to say, what else to give. Red stares at him long and hard, lifts the gun and fires.</p><p>Donald is still alive. He looks at the tree where the bullet has struck and then back at Red who is now kneeling next to him. “I know.” He says, “I know, Donnie.”</p><p>His name has never sounded sweeter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Tommy Markin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy Fucking Markin.</p><p>Of all the people in the world it had to be, it had to be Tommy Fucking Markin</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is an idea that has been knocking around in my head for years. The initial idea was to write it up as a full length story - with some Red/Ressler slashy bits - but I never got around to it. Seeing as the Ressler episode is about to come out tomorrow, I wanted to share before it did :) At least for today, this story can still be viable ^_^</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Our newest Blacklister is an assassin who kills high-value targets to help candidates climb the political ladder.” Liz waits for the screen to change from politicians to a string newspaper reports. Most depict car crashes, a splattering of household accidents and one of a man who tumbled from a balcony. “As you can see, they are all considered ‘accidents’, making it easy for the up-and-coming politician to take the open space.”</p><p>
“He has an intimate knowledge of politics.” Red continues, “Knows exactly who to kill, maim or torture to get his clients what they want.”</p><p>
“So, he’s a campaign manager who just plays the game a little too well.” Pipes Donald, arms crossed and expression bored. </p><p>
Red laughs, “Precisely Donald!”</p><p>
Donald smirks. He’s never liked politicians and he’s having a hard time to garner any sort of sympathy for them. He tries to remind himself that no all politicians are as bad as most. Some do mean well. It’s helping, if only a little.</p><p>
“According to some of my sources,” Red continues, turning to look at Cooper, “He has been at this for well over fifty years – some claim longer. Some even believe he was the Kennedy Assassin.” He chuckles, “If I had a dime for every man who has taken credit for that, my bank account would have a few extra zeros.”</p><p>
“Do we know who the next target will be?” asks Cooper.</p><p>
“Yes…” Liz glances at Donald, but quickly looks to Red. Donald frowns, curious at her sudden uncomfortable stance and uncertainty. But Red wouldn’t be Red if he let a little uncomfortableness stop him.</p><p>
“Yes! We do,” when Red turns to Donald his expression is intense, pinned up with anticipation, “An old friend of yours, Donald, someone you’re just dying to see. Most likely to kill.” </p><p>
“Who?”</p><p>
“Tommy Markin.”</p><p>
Any sympathy Donald has crawls up in his chest and dies.</p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

Tommy Fucking Markin.</p><p>
Of all the people in the world it had to be, it had to be Tommy Fucking Markin. He’s standing in the middle of the post-office – Donald’s <i>territory</i> – with agents clustered around him like eager pups. They’re talking to him, laughing with him, even admiring him. Calling him ‘hero’ because he spits out sugary sweet words that make people trust him, but they don’t know it’s just honey coated poison. His suit is as slick as his hair, and his smile as sharp and dangerous as Donald remembers it. He’s running for<i> mayor</i>, and their team’s newest assignment is now working as protection detail for this piece of shit.</p><p>
Donald wants to scream.</p><p>
When Markin turns a bright smile on him, he almost does.</p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

“It’s good to see you Donnie.” Markin says from the backseat.</p><p>
“Don’t call me that.”</p><p>
The expression can be called hurt. Donald knows better, it’s nothing more than a painted mask. Easy to apply and quick to wash off should you push the wrong button. </p><p>
“Why not?” he asks, voice radiating concern, but laced with that same strange edge of warning, “You used to call me Uncle Tommy when you were little.”</p><p>
“That was a long time ago ….”</p><p>
“You were quite fond of me –“</p><p>
“… and before you killed my father.” Donald turns his attention back to the road, keeping his hands tight on the wheel. Liz tenses next to him. Her expression is so blank it’s almost comical. </p><p>
“Now, now…” Markin leans closer, sliding up in his seat to rest his chin on the soft leather right by Donald’s shoulder. “We both know that’s not what happened. It was a tragedy, a horrible tragedy, nothing to be done about it.” He pauses, and Donald’s hands tighten on the wheel. “I miss him too. He was a good man.”</p><p>
It takes every ounce of control not to stop the car, pull him out of the back seat and proceed to beat him shitless. Instead he takes a deep breath and glances into the rearview mirror, meeting those piercing blue eyes. He’s always believed they were as close to the devil’s as he’s ever going to find. “You’re right. The better man died that day.”</p><p>
Markin sits back.</p><p>
The rest of the drive is in beautiful silence.</p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

“How are you keeping, Donald?” </p><p>
Donald sighs, already feeling the beginnings of a migraine pressing against his skull. Ever since they started this assignment everyone and their grandmother has sought him out to ask him if he’s doing okay. He’s doing perfectly fucking dandy, all things considered. He hasn’t shot the fucker yet.</p><p>
Despite his growing hostility, he sits back and stares at Red who has wandered into his office on a freezing October morning to <i>smirk</i> at him. Donald quietly reminds himself why he can’t shoot him. </p><p>
“Fine,” Donald says, “Now what do you want?”</p><p>
Red walks in, drops his hat on the desk and perches himself on the lip of it, as if he has a right to be here. “You’re more tense than a girl scout selling cookies to the local pedophile.” He leans in, “And you’re sporting a rather nasty headache.” </p><p>
“You’re not helping,” Donald snaps.</p><p>
For a moment Red’s expression softens, he sits back. “I know.” It sounds sincere, looks sincere, Donald has learned through Markin that looks can and will be deceiving. Red is looking out the window at Cooper and Markin speaking quietly around Aram’s computer. </p><p>
“You want to shoot him.”</p><p>
Donald’s looks at him, but Red’s eyes are still pinned to the small gathering. “Your point?”</p><p>
When he finally looks at him, it’s all Donald can do not to squirm. It’s so damned piercing. “There is nothing wrong with that.” He looks away to the ground, then “Being hurt and furious is perfectly acceptable.” He looks up, Donald swallows and Red continues “Just make sure that you don’t let it take away the good your father left behind.”</p><p>
It rattles him. Knocks through every door, cage and wall he’s erected against that little bit of truth. He wants to kill him, wants to put a bullet so badly into his head. He looks outside, watching him laughing with Aram. Donald swallows. Red is right. If he lets himself do this. Let’s the anger consume him, then Markin wins in every sense of the word.</p><p>
“I won’t.” he says, but it’s for naught. Red has already left.</p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

It’s on the third escort where everything goes to shit. Donald is not driving. This time it’s Park, and part of him will later believe this is the reason they were rammed. She just doesn’t have that intuition that Donald has somehow built in. She didn’t even try and swerve.</p><p>
The next few moments are a blur of screaming, pain and bullets. The bastards are shooting at them. Why the fuck are they shooting? Isn’t the point of the Blacklister to make it look like an accident? Somehow, he manages to drag Parkr out of the vehicle and behind it, where they both take cover and return fire. In the commotion he wonders where the hell Markin has got to, but he doesn’t have time to worry. Two more cars have pulled up, and they’re horribly out-gunned.</p><p>
He takes out at least six of the fuckers. Thankfully they’re lousy shots, and Donald even manages to gain ground, grabbing a fallen handgun when his own runs out of ammunition. It’s when he nails the eight one, square between the eyes that he sees them scramble back into their cars and drive off. It doesn’t make sense, but he counts his blessings. He’s gasping, a little disoriented and hopes Park is still standing.</p><p>
She is, and so is Markin. The fucker had hidden his cowardly ass in the car, stayed down and let them handle it. He halfway wants to shoot him. The thought stays, runs down his neck, straight down his arm to his hand which is gripping an enemy’s handgun. If he shoots him now, he could say Markin was a casualty, caught in the crossfire. An accident.</p><p>
It would be so damned easy. Raise the gun, aim and shoot. It will all be over. It will be better. And it will so damned wrong.</p><p>
The thought stays.</p><p>
<i>“Just make sure that you don’t let it take away the good your father left behind.”</i></p><p>
And dies. </p><p>
He drops the gun. “Let’s get out of here, Park.” He calls and heads to the over turned car. </p><p>
“Gladly!” she yells back, pulling out her phone to call for a ride. </p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

They finally catch their Blacklister – a damned hero in Donald’s eyes if anyone asks him – and with it they seize boxes and boxes of folders implicating politicians by the hundreds with accessory to murder. </p><p>
Some span back well over fifty years. The assassin’s initials changing a few times. A damned family business. He honestly hadn’t seen that coming. They sort through the mess, but it’s a half-empty box (labeled potentials) where he finds a folder – Tommy Markin’s file. The situation rings eerily similar to his own predicament only two years prior. But he pushes down the rising guilt and opens the folder. Donald stares at the papers, his heart hammering so hard he is almost convinced it’s about to tear out of its own accord. “This proves it.” </p><p>
“Proves what?”</p><p>
He spins around, and comes face to face with Reddington. Donald swallows hard, almost uncertain if he should share this, but Red has been good to him through this, even seems to understand it. So, he swallows and holds up the file, quietly hoping he isn’t making a mistake, “That Markin is a damned rat, that he set my father up.”</p><p>
The initial response is only raised eyebrows before Red walks closer to see them for himself. He doesn’t take them, keeping his hands by his sides, allowing Donald to show them to him. “Photos, transactions, and transcripts.” He says, “Detailed ones.” His smile is sharp, and when he looks up Donald can swear, he even sees a touch of warmth “Excellent, Donald.”</p><p>
Donald can only nod.</p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

A few hours later he’s called into Cooper’s office. When he sees his face his heart sinks and when Coopers tells him to shut the door, he knows what’s about to come.</p><p>
“Do you know the damage this has done?” Cooper sounds tired, perhaps a little angry, but there is a piercing exhaustion to him that feels almost tangible in the small space of his office. He collapses in his chair, and Donald remains standing. “They’re trying to save face. Doing everything they can to put a new spin on this.”</p><p>
“It’s black and white,” he retorts. “They can’t change it Cooper.”</p><p>
Cooper stares at him, his eyes filling up with pity, “Someone has to take the fall Donald, and it can’t be the upcoming Mayor.”</p><p>
Donald will not allow his heart to sink. He has to keep believing that, at least to some capacity, good will prevail. That’s what his father believed.</p><p>

* * * *</p><p>

The television is long off. The silence of his apartment only broken by the bustle rising up from the street. Donald sits in the dark. Hands limp in his lap, head bowed and ears ringing from the words still humming through him. </p><p>
“<i>According to new information once local hero, Detective Ressler had instigated the shoot-out over twenty years ago and had in fact been working with the local drug-lord who was part of the confrontation. Newly appointed Mayor Markin, former partner of Detective Ressler, had no prior knowledge of this, and says that although good men can turn bad, we must always remember that the opposite is also true.</i>”</p><p>
There is the devil of a misery settling about him, like ice growing on the surface of a pond to smother the water from the sun. He wonders if he’ll ever feel it again. Wonders if he has a right to.</p><p>
He doesn’t look up when the door opens and shuts, when footsteps clap their way to the kitchen and hands begin their search through his cupboards. When Red does finally sit down across from him the criminal doesn’t say a word, only pours Donald a few fingers and sets it front of him with a thud that claps through the apartment.</p><p>
Donald stares at it. Vaguely surprised that Red cares enough to do this much. He is even more surprised he doesn’t want to throw it back in Red’s face. Instead he takes it and sips, relishing the good whiskey, and quietly wonders how long he can stay loyal to an organization which has done him this much harm. </p>
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